


Déjà Vu

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 616/MCU fusion, Amnesia, Brainwashing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Winter Soldier Bucky, my sucky action sequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7231750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the 21st Century, the Winter Soldier once again has a mission to complete. What should be a simple assassination is quickly complicated by one man with a bow an arrow, and the Soldier finds himself behaving in a manner his latest employer is not pleased with. The solution is obvious: eliminate Hawkeye - so why is that easier said than done?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Déjà Vu

**Author's Note:**

> I found this prompt answer interesting to write - I think the whole 'Bucky's WS programming is triggered' trope has been done a lot since _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ , and maybe even more so considering what happens in _Captain America: Civil War_ (which hadn't been released when I started planning this), so I hope this isn't just another one of those kinds of stories. I smushed Bucky's 616 history together with a few MCU details in this, but you don't need to know a whole lot about either 'verse to understand what's going on. As for the way Bucky's memories come back, I took inspiration from someone's autobiography - they'd been in a serious car crash and suffered from amnesia quite badly, but recovered most of their memories during their hospital stay and wrote about the experience afterwards. It didn't sound fun.
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank the Anon who prompted this both for the prompt and their patience. I really hope you're reading this now, and that it was worth the wait!
> 
> There shouldn't be any mistakes, but it's half-past midnight now... ah well. Any glaring errors, please let me know ^_^

The agony in his head is all-consuming. Comprehending anything beyond it is impossible, until a string of familiar words breaks through to his consciousness. His body still shakes and twitches as his mind relaxes, but by the time he’s registered his surroundings his muscles have calmed, and he’s almost back to resting pulse and breathing rates. He tells them he’s ready, and they give him an hour to prepare. 

The man he’s after, Grimwald Özil, is not KGB, but ex-HYDRA – late forties, German descent, no family save for an elderly mother living in lavish care home upstate, and CEO of Kronos Corporation. He was recently discovered to be an informant for the American security organisation S.H.I.E.L.D., and is believed to be spilling secrets not just about HYDRA, but about Department X and the Red Room as well, both of which he had some minor involvement with in the past. The target is only rated level four, but due to his informant status and his high-profile position, there is no question that Özil is being carefully supervised. 

“The sooner he is taken care of, the better,” his new ‘employer’ stresses. “Kronos needs new leadership – it was lost under HYDRA even before Bodganow’s betrayal – and I have waited long enough.” 

They drop him onto an abandoned multi-storey parking lot in the heart of the city. Özil is supposed to be meeting another HYDRA leader at a nearby café, to discuss business and no doubt provide intel for S.H.I.E.L.D. The Soldier sets up a sniper rifle a level below the top, covered by the shadows, and puts Özil in the crosshairs. A shot through the chest, so both S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA know who the shot was for. The sidewalk is busy, and pedestrians mill around the table freely, but he knows an opening will present itself soon, and until then, he can afford to wait. When that opportunity finally comes around, it’s a simple case of squeezing the trigger and watching – 

An arrow hits the rifle barrel at the last second. He doesn’t see where the shot lands as the scope is jerked away, but it isn’t in Özil’s chest, and that means it isn’t a concern right now. Getting away is. 

“It’s him!” a voice says as he starts to run. “I’m in pursuit!” 

Feet hit the concrete behind him in quick succession, and he hears a grunt as something is thrown. He turns, metal hand outstretched, and catches a circular shield, following its momentum and hurling it off the building, his stride barely broken. He hears his pursuer pause in his chase for a second and presses the advantage. As he runs he quickly works out a plan to shake Captain America: his escape vehicle is on the top level, but bringing the enemy up there is out of the question. He’ll have to convince the Captain he’s gone down at least one level, and take either the stairs or the elevator shaft back up. 

It’s no hardship to vault over the side of the lot and catch the wall of the next level as he falls – though there’s no preparing for the jolt that nearly rips his metal arm from his shoulder (has that happened before?). Something tells him the Captain has a tendency to be just as reckless, but he hears nothing when he pulls himself onto the parking floor to suggest the man has followed him. Nevertheless, he sprints to the stair doors, tucking himself around the corner to wait; only for a few seconds, and then he’s prying open the broken elevator doors, and assessing the climb back up. 

Once he’s on the top level again, the Soldier runs to the corner where the HYDRA jet sits concealed – or at least, it had been concealed when they landed. He can make out the pilots in their seats, heads lolling to one side each, and it’s then that he remembers his shot was stopped by an arrow. 

A faint whistle sounds on his right, and he steps aside to catch another one mid-flight. From what he knows of Hawkeye, it would have hit him right at his shoulder joint, minimising his movement in that arm and leaving his other one more vulnerable to a disarming arrow. Close combat is the best attack here, and when he spots the archer nocking his bow by the jet’s wheels, the Soldier runs at him. A few more arrows fly at him in an impressive volley but he knocks them aside, distantly surprised when Hawkeye runs to meet him. 

“I’m engaged!” he says as they spar, likely into comms. “No, not in that way, though that would really be prefer-ah!” 

The Soldier knocks a leg out from under him, sending Hawkeye falling backwards, but he rolls away and back up before the Soldier can hit him. He stands poised, bow held out defensively, a slight smirk at the corner of his lips. 

“Getting there,” he says. It might be the other Avengers he’s talking to. “Just gotta wait for the right moment.” 

Not giving him a moment, the Soldier reignites the fight. HYDRA’s file on Hawkeye had said that while he was well-trained in hand-to-hand it wasn’t his strongest skill set, and that he was a lesser threat than the Black Widow, but the Soldier’s growing concerned that he seems to know every move that is being thrown at him. He was smiling at times, even. His expression only changes – and dramatically – when the Soldier slips out a knife. 

“They let you keep that?” he says, tone as odd as his words. Ignoring them, the Soldier attacks. Hawkeye retaliates far more efficiently than he had been fighting earlier, and soon has the Soldier in a headlock, the knife twisted out of his grip. “Bucky!” he calls to someone. “C’mon, man, don’t make me hurt you.” The Soldier struggles though, familiar with this type of hold and how to break free from it. “Steve,” Hawkeye says as the knife is reclaimed, “any advice here?” He’s defending well, but the Soldier’s irritated by how long this fight is taking; he’s failed to hit his target because of this man, and his handlers won’t be pleased. “No! Don’t interfere, we agreed –” 

At last, there’s a move he doesn’t anticipate, and when he falls this time, the Soldier moves too quickly for him to outmanoeuvre, pressing the blade against his throat. A deep enough cut to the artery and he’ll bleed out in minutes. 

He just has to cut. 

Arterial wounds can be fatal. 

Press and swipe. That’s all. 

“I know how you got this knife,” Hawkeye says after a minute, his voice tight. The Soldier frowns, but he continues: “I gave it to you on your birthday, two months ago. I won it off Nat in a poker game, and she won it off Coulson at some point, and he – well, I don’t actually remember how he got, but I think it was a collector’s auction or something, you know how he is.” 

“What are you talking about?” the Soldier growls, frustrated. He picked the knife at random from the armoury before departing for this mission. 

All he needs to do is cut the artery. 

Hawkeye swallows. “You got that knife in France in 1942, after you and the Invaders liberated a town from Nazi control. You said a German widower gave it to you as thanks, and it belonged to her husband. Your initials are underneath his.” 

“I don’t have initials.” And who are the Invaders? He’s never been part of a team, and they sure as heck don’t sound – 

_“You think folks back home are gonna approve of Captain America carrying a Gerry’s knife around? Come on, Steve, the press’ll say you’re a damn Nazi agent, or something! No-one’ll know if I carry it. I’m not your sidekick, you know that.”_

“Bucky?” 

That name… Who the hell is – 

The Soldier cuts the bowstring and takes the quiver from Hawkeye’s back. He ignores the shouts as he makes his way to the jet, taking off quickly and entering stealth mode as soon as he’s able. Although it stays in its sheath, the knife stays clear in his mind’s eye, save for a few tiny scratches at the top the hilt. 

When he returns to his handlers, they command him to give a mission report, and he tells them almost everything. Something stops him from telling them about the flickers of memories he experienced on the flight back, and the hope in Hawkeye’s eyes before the string was cut. He has to tell them of the knife, and the story told about it, because there are scratch marks on it, but they’re not initials. 

It’s no surprise that they take him to be wiped. An interesting conversation plays out on the way, though. 

“I told you that wouldn’t be enough,” one guard mutters to another. 

“It’s not like he remembered anything specific.” 

“The boss said not to let him have it.” 

“The knife didn’t make him remember shit, that Avenger did. Anyway, you heard what he said. If he didn’t recognise his own name when someone was saying it to his face, what were a few letters on a knife going to do?” 

“Whether we removed them or not, he should not have had the knife. What would Hawkguy have done then?” 

“Hawkeye.” 

“What?” 

“It’s not Hawkguy, it’s Hawkeye.” 

“Yeah. Hawkguy.” 

“No, Hawk-eye. Like a hawk’s…” 

They remain outside as the Soldier is prepared for the wipe. In the chair, knowing what’s coming, the Soldier finds himself picturing Hawkeye’s face one last time. 

***

It takes a while, but eventually, Özil comes out of hiding, like the Soldier’s handlers said he would. He receives a call from his mother’s care home (or so he believes) informing him of a bad turn in her health, and naturally, S.H.I.E.L.D. are all too sympathetic. The Soldier waits out of sight at the edge of a nearby wooded area, surrounded by basic traps, able to see any approaching vehicles and whether or not they go round the back of the building. With access to the security cameras, he’ll know the moment Özil goes to enter the building, and that’s his window – a few metres between a vehicle and a door. Tricky, but manageable. 

A few hours in, a delivery van pulls up to the care home, following the road around the front entrance and past the Soldier’s hiding spot to the rear entrance. Nothing follows it, so the Soldier moves quickly to put it back in his sights; it’s not unfeasible to imagine that S.H.I.E.L.D. would hide Özil in such a disguise. Sure enough, he’s sat in the passenger seat, obviously nervous. The Soldier has two options here: wait for Özil to leave the van and hit him before he reaches the door (risky, because if he misses, they’ll realise it’s a trap and cover their charge hard), or go for a double tap through the – 

The snapping of a branch sounds behind him, and the Soldier throws a knife towards it. His assailant ducks into a roll, unharmed, and comes out of it ready to shoot an arrow straight back. The Soldier runs in close, aware of the van screeching away back at the house, and knocks the bow up as the archer fires. The traps he set up are useless here, and while it was smart of the man to wait until he’d moved from them to strike, it was foolish to come so close to the Soldier and allow a hand-to-hand fight to happen. Judging by his proficiency and weapon choice, the attacker is the Avenger known as Hawkeye, which means he’s good, but he’s not as great a threat as someone like the Black Widow. 

That means he can be beaten. 

It takes a few minutes to put Hawkeye down, and then it’s a simple case of putting a bullet in the back of his head. Or it should be. 

“You can’t do it, can you?” Hawkeye pants on the ground, bloodied lips twisted into something like a grin. “Shit. You’re really still in there.” 

“I’ve killed before,” the Soldier says, finger still on the trigger of his pistol. 

“I know,” he says, wincing. “Just never imagined that I’d be on one side of a gun and you’d be on the other, let alone that you wouldn’t be able to –” 

“I am perfectly capable of killing you.” He doesn’t have to use a gun. 

Hawkeye laughs. “Yeah. ‘Cause you did exactly that the last time we fought.” 

The last time? 

“The Bucky Barnes I know would hate himself if I died because of him. So if you really can’t do it Bucky, don’t try.” 

He doesn’t know who Bucky is, but the Soldier realises then what Hawkeye is trying to do. To shut him up, he changes his grip on the pistol and brings it sharply down on Hawkeye’s head, knocking him unconscious. Then he thinks, long and hard, because he may have a point: something is preventing him from pulling the trigger. A flaw in his programming, perhaps, that let that “last time” Hawkeye mentioned affect his judgement. This is a problem that needs to be reported, but Hawkeye is a witness, and he was told not to leave anyone who saw him alive. 

Calling in extraction, the Soldier sets about binding Hawkeye’s wrists and disarming him of any remaining weapons. He tries not to think too much about the man at his feet as he waits, focusing instead on how he’s going to solve this problem. There will be reprogramming, no matter what he says to his handlers, and a good chance that Hawkeye will be killed – if not, tortured – and that doesn’t sound like something he wants to happen. It’s another sign of how badly he needs to get back and give a mission report: somehow, Hawkeye is messing with his head and his ability to function. He’s already cost him Özil, rendered him unable to kill, and given him a desire. Who knows how else his performance could be affected if they continue to interact with one another? 

When the extraction team arrives, he puts Hawkeye over his shoulder and carries him to the jet. One of the men gives him a strange look. “Thought the order was to kill any witnesses?” he says as the Soldier drops Hawkeye on the floor.” 

“Not this one.” He immediately straps himself in, and the man shrugs, closing the jet ramp and signalling to the pilot. 

Back at the base, the reaction from his employer isn’t too dissimilar. “At what point did your orders refer to bringing a living Avenger right into our home?” he roars upon arrival at the central room. 

“He ambushed me before I could make the hit on the target.” 

“So why isn’t he dead?” 

“His file says he’s proficient –” 

“I know what his file says. Why. Isn’t. He. Dead?” 

The Soldier braces himself. “I believe he could be a valuable asset.” 

His employer pauses, then whispers, “You what?” 

On the floor, Hawkeye groans, coming round. “I’m starting to think brainwashing and me getting hit really hard in the head by assassins go hand in hand,” he mumbles, and tries to sit up. “Where the hell are we?” 

“Your grave, Mr. Barton,” the Soldier’s employer says, breaking eye contact with the Soldier. He looks down at Hawkeye like one might at a disobedient dog. 

“Huh,” Barton grunts, looking around. “Bit bigger than I thought it’d be.” 

“Oh, we can rectify that. But the point of the matter is: you shouldn’t be here, and now that you are, we cannot let you leave.” 

“So you’re killing me? Wow. Harsh. I’ll have you know I’m a wonderful house guest.” 

“Soldier. Kill him now.” 

The Soldier moves to do as he’s told, bringing a gun level with Barton’s head. Sat on the floor with his hands tied, however, Barton starts laughing. “I don’t think that’s gonna work.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the employer says, and nods to the Soldier. 

However, Barton’s the one who’s right, and the Soldier knows it. He can feel it in his very muscles, the way they grip the pistol as before yet refuse to move how he knows they should. He’s disobeying a direct order, and for the enemy. 

“What are you waiting for?” his employer asks. “This man is of no use to us and is a dangerous liability. Eliminate him.” 

They met once before, he said. 

“C’mon, man, don’t make me hurt you.” 

“Pull the trigger and kill this man.” 

He doesn’t want to. Barton looks up at him, eyes wide. 

“Soldier!” 

“Bucky?” 

The parts of the gun clatter on the concrete floor as he disassembles it swiftly. With an increased heart rate, he moves to stand between Barton and his employer, facing the latter openly. A shaky exhale sounds from down by his knees. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“He can be useful to us,” the Soldier insists. 

“Since when were you allowed to make decisions for others?” his employer sneers. 

“We can use him to catch the target.” 

“Why? Because you no longer can?” He steps forward. “We have just the thing for that, don’t you worry.” 

The Soldier swallows. Logically, what he’s suggesting is far more beneficial than killing Barton. He doesn’t quite understand why it’s not being considered. “The likelihood of success would increase with two assets,” he says, “and more missions could be undertaken –” 

“This is not a negotiation! Kill him, or –” 

An explosion rocks the walls of the basement. Everyone looks up in alarm, and someone cries, “What the hell was that?” 

“That would be my friends.” Barton casually shakes the bindings from his wrists, standing up to the sound of guns being drawn and aimed his way. He gives the Soldier’s employer a smirk. “You might have heard of them.” 

“Kill him!” The command goes out to everyone, but the Soldier is given a different one: “Cover my escape. Shoot anyone who follows. And I mean anyone.” 

There’s a jet stored another level below the basement for this purpose, and the Soldier stays close to his employer as they leave. He doesn’t turn at the sound of gunfire; his priority is making sure they aren’t followed, and if Barton’s kept busy then he should be able to take care of anyone on their tail. Nobody follows, though, and they make it to the jet quickly and smoothly. Its engines are already going when they arrive in the underground hangar, the tunnel before it lit up in anticipation. 

Before boarding, the Soldier’s employer tells him, “Report to Sierra Base for reprogramming immediately. Nobody is to see you leave, nobody is to follow you, and if anybody does you do not hesitate to put them down – or your life will be forfeit. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“We will fix this problem,” the employer promises, and strides up the closing ramp. 

The Soldier waits, gun raised, until the jet has departed. He hears people approaching down the escape passage, and wastes no time in making himself disappear. 

***

It’s after his twelfth nightmare in three days that Barnes wakes up and reaches for his gun, knowing that he isn’t alone. The idea of disappearing is that nobody can find you, and he categorically does not want to be found. 

“What are you doing here?” The gun stays steady in his hands. He’s masking the fact that the nightmare has left him disoriented, that for a moment he can’t work out whether he’s in Brooklyn, St. Petersburg, Berlin, or somewhere completely different – New York still, perhaps, judging by his present company. 

Barton appears calm too, raising his hands slowly. His bow is nowhere in sight. “I came to make sure you weren’t hurt,” he says. “It’s just me. I promise.” 

“Why should I believe you?” 

He shrugs. “Believe whatever makes you comfortable.” 

Except that’s the thing. Barnes doesn’t know what to believe anymore. He’s always been a weapon for Department X, he knows that, they’ve told him so repeatedly. So why is he remembering a time when he wasn’t? And why does it look so vastly different to the world he’s in now? 

Trying to focus, Barnes flexes his jaw and breathes through his nose. “Shouldn’t you be with the Avengers?” he asks. 

“Shouldn’t you be with that egomaniac Russian guy?” 

“He’s dead.” 

“No he’s not.” 

Barnes falters. “What?” 

Frowning, Barton says, “You didn’t know?” 

He’d assumed; no agents sent after him, no tracking, no messages, nothing on the news about Özil or Kronos – what other explanation could there be? There’s no hint of a lie on Barton’s face, either, and how he knows that is another point of confusion and worry. “S.H.I.E.L.D. have him, then.” 

“We don’t, actually. That’s partly why I came to see you.” 

“Partly?” 

Barton nods, lowering his hands despite Barnes realigning his gun. “Like I said,” he continues, “I came to see if you were hurt. And to offer my aid.” 

“Your aid?” Barnes repeats, surprised. 

“I know what you’re going through, Bucky. What’s going on in your head –” 

“There’s nothing going on in my head.” 

“Really? So, that nightmare you were having when I got here. That was a genuine dream and not a series of flashbacks?” 

He opens his mouth to deny it but holds his tongue. Barton sounds like he does know what’s happening. Sensing where the conversation could be going, Barnes shakes his head, warning him, “Don’t even think about taking me to S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

“Not my agenda here,” he says. “I’ve seen you go through this before,” he explains. “Well – from a distance, I guess, but you told me about it once you were more yourself.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Maybe not, but it will in time.” 

“So what do you think you can offer me? Advice?” 

Barton opens his mouth and hesitates, an odd mix of emotions showing briefly on his face. “Nobody knows I’m here,” he says. “Not S.H.I.E.L.D., not the Avengers, not my family – and they won’t know. Not until you’re better. And that’s what I’m offering you: the chance to heal without having to worry about any of that shit, because it’s fucking hard trying to do so when you’re the only one watching your back.” 

Protection. Barton, a man he’s tried to kill in the last week, is offering him protection – not just from his enemies, but from his friends. From everyone. “What makes you so sure I’ll accept your help?” 

It looks like Barton’s refraining from rolling his eyes. “If you didn’t care about me in some way, you would have been able to kill me. If you couldn’t do it then, you certainly can’t do it now. If you wanted absolutely nothing to do with me, you’d have made a run for it when you put me at gunpoint. And regardless of whether you accept my help or not, I plan on making sure you’re safe for as long as I have to, because I have no doubt you are still the Bucky Barnes I know and love, and I know you can overcome this. And I’ll do whatever I have to to make sure that happens on your terms.” 

Barnes doesn’t realise he’s lowered the gun until he feels the blanket against his hand, but even then he can’t stop staring at the person in front of him. What does he think he’s doing? 

_“You know that song that goes, um… Shit, I don’t remember the tune, but it goes on about ‘winter, spring, summer or fall, all you gotta do is call’, or whatever – point is, it’s the same for me. You ever need help with anything, just gimme a call. I mean it. Putting up wallpaper, making a Starbucks choice, fighting an AIM geekery, any of it – I’ll be there. Seriously, Buck, even giant pooping dragons pooping all over Wyoming, just let me know and I’ll be right on over! ‘Cause you know I’ve always got your back, right?”_

“Bucky?” 

“Who are you to me?” he demands. A man he cannot kill, a man who refuses to let anyone near him, and someone who should, for all intents and purposes, be his enemy. 

“I’m Clint Barton,” he says. “You and me, we’re…” He swallows. “We’re very close.” 

“Very close.” 

_“Of course I do. I’ve always got yours, too. Except for when dragons are pooping over Wyoming, I might leave that one in your hands.”_

He runs a hand through his hair, dizzy enough with confusion and uncertainty that Barton takes two steps closer without him realising. “Alright,” he says eventually, a hand held up between them. “You can watch my back. But not in here.” 

His relief is palpable. “Okay,” he breathes. “I can manage that.” He glances up at the ceiling. “My bow’s in the apartment above.” 

Barnes nods, and watches him leave. “Barton,” he calls when he’s halfway out the door (the name falling naturally from his lips). “It’s really just you?” 

“No S.H.I.E.L.D., no Avengers. On my mom’s grave.” 

There’s a weight to the oath that convinces Barnes that he’s being truthful, again. When the door closes, he sags back against the wall, dragging his metal hand over his face. Answers can’t come soon enough. 

***

It doesn’t take long for him to be grateful for Barton’s presence. Knowing the other man was nearby must have touched something in his subconscious that let him finally switch off enough to actually sleep, or come as close to it as he ever could. What clues him in is waking up one time, not having realised he fell asleep, to find Barton in the far left corner of the empty room. Before he can say anything Barton is telling him, “I couldn’t tell if you were screaming from a nightmare or because someone was hurting you, and I know you don’t want me here but this is the only way I can know for certain I’m not going to find you dead once the screaming stops, so deal with it. You’re lucky you only have rats for neighbours, you know.” 

The perks of finding derelict office blocks. Barnes doesn’t bother pointing out that there are probably other people sheltering in the building until its demolition date arrives, just accepts Barton’s new position and drops back into unconsciousness. His screaming probably keeps them away, anyhow. 

When he’s not asleep, time doesn’t pass any easier. The return of his memories is a brutal, drawn-out process that leaves him physically and mentally exhausted. His mind won’t stop throwing images and snippets of sounds at him, like his entire life is straining at a crack in a dam that’s only wide enough for a few moments at a time to burst through. They aren’t connected in any way – no chronologically, not by recognition of a person, not by similar sounds. Some last longer than others, others are longer-lasting once they’ve surfaced. He’ll remember his sister’s smile one moment, a forest in Europe the next, and then the press of metal against his bare back as he’s put in Department X’s chair. Faces come and go, names jump out at him for no apparent reason, and he’s constantly torn between laughing and crying and tearing his hair out in frustration. If memories were tangible things, the inside of his skull would be black and blue from the onslaught. 

He and Barton rarely speak to each other, despite the lack of anything happening over the passing days. True to Barton’s word, neither S.H.I.E.L.D. nor the Avengers show up, though his phone going off raises the hair on the back of Barnes’ neck every time until Barton throws the battery out of the window. It’s odd how easily Barton can calm him with such a simple action, and he can only attribute it to the fact that his memories of him are returning. “We’re very close,” Barton had said, and Barnes wonders why he chose that particular phrasing. ‘Very close’ is how he’d describe his and Steve Rogers’ relationship: a brotherhood forged in battle and unique life experiences, of watching each other grow to fit the mantles placed on their shoulders, and finding one another again after impossible circumstances. What he and Barton had – have? – that’s different. 

It dawns on him one day when he has the luxury of waking up slowly (the sound of his father’s voice slipping away before he can latch onto it). Opening his eyes he sees Barton resting by the window, the daylight profiling his face with a bright edge, and the image relaxes him so much he doesn’t flinch at the handful of memories that skip past his mind’s eye – pulling a towel over blonde hair, covering a bad scrape with a band aid, kissing lazily in bed, holding him from behind and nuzzling the back of his bare ear… 

Bucky Barnes and Clint Barton were in a serious relationship. 

“Is this hard for you?” he asks one evening when Barton returns from picking up a pizza. He’d seen Barton staring at him again after a particularly strong surge of memories had left him reeling, the other man’s fingers tight around his bow, and has since wondered just how much restraint Barton is exercising each day. After all, it can't be easy seeing someone you love struggling and knowing you can't help the way you want to. “Given how we…” 

Though the sentence remains unfinished, Barton nods, dropping the warm box onto the ground between them. “It’s not exactly a picnic,” he says, sitting down. “But I’m here as long as you need me.” 

“Yeah,” Barnes murmurs, the smell of pepperoni briefly making him think of Tony Stark. He waits for Barton to take a few bites of food before continuing, “Thank you. For being here. You don’t have to be.” 

Pausing in his chewing, Barton gives him a smile and swallows. “Got nowhere else to be.” 

“You have a life with S.H.I.E.L.D., don’t you? With the Avengers?” 

“I have a life with you. And frankly, I’d rather live without them, knowing you were safe than live with them and not know whether you were alive or dead.” 

“That’s why you came after me.” 

The look Barton pins him with is open and deep. “There’s nothing that would have kept me from getting you back.” 

Why, he wants to ask, when he knows exactly why; but remembering a relationship is not the same as being in one. Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. 

***

Two weeks after Barton finds him, Barnes makes a decision. “I want to go after him.” 

Barton looks up from where he’s tending to his bow, eyebrows raised. “Him?” 

“You said he wasn’t dead and he wasn’t with S.H.I.E.L.D. I know where he might be.” 

Quickly understanding, Barton immediately begins preparing. “You got everything you need?” 

A gun, ammunition, a bag, a few things to hide his identity. “Yeah.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

He doesn’t even consider telling him not to come – he could use the backup, and he’s started to accept that he can trust Barton. They descend the stairs in silence (he chased a mark down a staircase like this once, throwing knives smooth between his fingers), but at the bottom Barton stops him before they leave the building, the hand on his inner elbow not the intrusion of personal space it would have been a couple of weeks ago. “You know S.H.I.E.L.D. will be able to find us as soon as we hit the streets,” Barton says. 

Barnes meets his gaze levelly. “They’re not my concern right now.” Without waiting for an answer, he steps outside. 

Barton’s warning instils a sense of urgency to his plan, and with the cap tugged low over his face he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and strides towards Sierra Base. The memories haven’t stopped returning but they’re manageable now, and he’s able to maintain his focus as he leads Barton along. There’s no way of knowing how many people will be at the base when they reach it – he’s assuming most of them were caught when the Avengers attacked the last base, and that those who escaped won’t have moved since relocating there. Ultimately, if his ex-employer is nowhere in sight, it won’t matter, because he knows every possible hiding place he could have slunk away to, and regardless of whether S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers are on his back, he’ll hunt down everyone responsible for the hell he’s going through again until there’s no-one left to pose a threat to him or anyone he cares about. 

When they reach Sierra Base, there’s still no sign of S.H.I.E.L.D. The base’s front is that of a closed-down tattoo parlour, and Barnes has no trouble getting them in and locating the secret mechanism that opens up the underground access. Gun drawn and loaded, he leads the way down, Barton at his back with an arrow nocked in his bow. Together they make quick, silent work of the first agents they come across, incapacitating without killing, and soon they’re face to face with the man who started the nightmare in the first place. 

“You don’t have to hurt me,” he begs from the floor, hands shaking as he holds them up. “I’ll come quietly, I swear –” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Barnes growls. He’s aiming the gun down at him, but his eyes keep darting up to the chair he’s cowering against. It’s affecting him, he knows – someone’s screaming in the back of his head and his heart rate’s gone up, an adrenaline surge he wasn’t anticipating. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D. are here,” Barton says near the exit. “They’ll be setting up a perimeter, won’t come down for a minute or two.” 

Flicking the safety on his gun, Barnes sticks it in the back of his waistband. His ex-employer looks relieved until the moment he’s hauled up by his shirt front, Barnes’ metal arm whirring with the effort of not ripping through the material, and thrown bodily into the chair. He cries out as his head smacks against the back of it hard, and Barnes wastes no time in stepping over to the control panel. The sound of the clamps closing around the man’s arms is enough to catch Barton’s attention. 

“Bucky, what are you doing?” he asks as the machine starts up. Barnes ignores him – he’s never been in this position before, and there’s a dark satisfaction at the switch curling out from his chest. He watches the arm rotate upwards, the head-plate crackling to life as it swings towards its victim, just loud enough to cover the whimpered pleas and prayers coming from the seat. 

“Bucky!” 

Seconds before the vice closes, Barnes hits the stop button. The whine of the machine smoothly decreases in pitch, the sparks of electricity disappearing one by one, until all that’s left to be heard is the sound of the would-be head of Kronos sobbing quietly where he sits. Barnes stands in front of him. The clamps have released him, but he seems incapable of moving. When he opens his eyes, tears streaking his face, Barnes stares straight at him and snarls, “I wouldn’t wish this on Hitler.” He waits until defeat settles across the man’s features before pulling him out of the chair. 

When he turns to leave, Barton raises an eyebrow at him. “Hitler?” 

He doesn’t even blink. “I meant that.” 

There’s not an ounce of judgement on Barton’s face. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’ll be waiting for us,” he says as they make their way out. “There won’t be any room to run.” 

Keeping his gaze ahead, Barnes lets out a slow breath, saying, “I’m done hiding.” 

***

When they reach the fake parlour doors, Clint sees Bucky hesitate. Taking their prisoner from him, he shoves him out towards S.H.I.E.L.D., saying, “You know where to go,” and watches the man do as he’s told, graciously raising his hands weakly above his head as he shuffles towards the spread of S.H.I.E.L.D. vans. Two agents meet him halfway, snapping cuffs around his wrists without question, and Clint has never felt so pleased watching someone disappear into a black van. He turns to see if Bucky’s getting the same sense of satisfaction, surprised to see him frowning instead. “You okay?” 

Glancing at him, Bucky just nods, gaze returning to S.H.I.E.L.D. He looks troubled, still half-in the doorway, and Clint wonders if he’s had a sudden change of heart. 

“Hey,” he says gently. “I won’t let them hurt you.” 

Shifting on the spot, Bucky murmurs, “I know, it’s just…” He takes a breath, looking back quickly over his shoulder. “There’s something I have to do.” 

Clint knows not to ask him what. “I can stall them.” 

“Give me five minutes.” 

“Alright.” He turns to go, picking out Coulson among the STRIKE squad and regular agents. 

“Clint.” 

Stopping short at the sound of his name coming from Bucky, Clint turns back, heart in his throat as Bucky wrestles with something. A few seconds pass before he softly speaks. 

“I’ll need time.” 

They’re not the words Clint dreams of, but they’re enough to make hope blossom in his chest. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, “of course.” He wants to reach out and touch him – lightly, on the back of his hand, his shoulder, his face – but with a quick nod, Bucky disappears back inside the secret base, and so Clint smothers his feelings and steps out to deal with the suits. 

Coulson’s speaking into a walkie-talkie as Clint approaches. “… only on my command.” An affirmative sounds over the device, and he drops his arm down to his side. “Barton.” 

“Coulson.” 

“Where’s Barnes gone?” 

Clint jerks his chin at the van leaving the scene. “What’ll happen to him?” 

Without looking around, Coulson says, “Aleksander Lukin is being taken for questioning, after which he’ll be sentenced by the proper authorities. What for, I can’t say, but I doubt he’ll see beyond bars anytime soon.” 

It’s less than he deserves in Clint’s mind, but Bucky’s the one whose thoughts on the subject matter. Either way, it’s out of their hands now. “And Bucky?” he asks Coulson, already guessing the answer. 

“Interrogation and full psych eval, maybe an isolation period, house arrest – you know the drill.” Coulson doesn’t say it unkindly, but even the professional sympathy in his tone is enough to spark a dull flare of anger in Clint, and he wants to snap that it wasn’t Bucky’s fault, it never has been, and that he doesn’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. “It’ll be easier if he co-operates with us on this.” 

“He will.” 

“So where is he?” 

“He’s just taking care of some unfinished business.” 

Coulson smiles blandly. “So you’re stalling.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“I’m not here to play games, Barton. I know how much Barnes means to you but there’s a protocol we have to follow here, and the longer that takes, the more difficult it’s going to be for Barnes to get cleared.” 

“Like it’s not going to be difficult already,” Clint says, and Coulson’s lack of response confirms as such. He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not playing here either, sir. You trusted me with Nat, you trusted me with New Mexico, and you told Fury he could trust me with watching the Tesseract. I’m asking you to trust me here, too.” 

Taking a second to look over Clint’s shoulder at the tattoo parlour door, Coulson gives him a flat look. “You do realise that in each of those situations I had no reason to believe that your judgement may have been compromised by an emotional attachment to the subject?” he says, and Clint falters. “I’m just doing my job, Agent Barton,” he continues, “and after appearing to go AWOL for the last two weeks, there are quite a few people who want to know exactly how compromised you’ve become whilst on this assignment.” 

Clint looks up, surprised. “Assignment?” 

“The assignment I put you on to keep track of Barnes. Deep cover, no contact, need-to-know only.” 

He swallows. “Coulson –” 

“Don’t thank me yet. I’ve still got to sell it to the brass. They’ll believe it better if you stop interfering.” He lifts the walkie-talkie back up to his lips. “STRIKE move in.” 

Turning his head back to the base, Clint’s stomach flips as he sees two agents flank Bucky closely, leading him away as the STRIKE team slips in through the door behind them. As he passes, Clint notices fresh scratch marks on the back of his metal hand. Their eyes meet fleetingly, and it seems to Clint that Bucky finally looks at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "The Winter Soldier comes back and is told to hurt Clint. However, since he and Bucky is the same person, the Soldier also loves Clint and refuses to do so."
> 
> Sorry for the slightly abrupt ending, but it felt like a natural ending point, and you don't abuse natural ending points (trust me - you just don't). And I know the prompt was for Winterhawk but man I feel so guilty for side-lining Steve...!


End file.
